“Nothing, ma’am,—nothing whatever, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.
“Nothing!” said the lady looking up.
“Nothing, ma’am, upon my honor,” said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. “I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.”
“If this improbable story be really true, sir,” said the lady, sobbing violently, “you will leave it instantly.”
“I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“Instantly, sir,” said the lady.
“Certainly, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. “Certainly, ma’am. I—I—am very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, “to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.”
The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness.
“I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.
“If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,” said the lady.